Footprints

British poet Edward James 

had his wife’s footprints 

sewn onto the stairs 

of their home.

I read that and thought, 

“That's the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” 

When we swiped right, 

you texted first. 

You said,

“Sorry for being so straightforward.” 

You said, 

“[I’m] absolutely stunning.” 

You said, 

“If we were in Ancient Greece, 

[you]’d sculpt [my] likeness 

so future generations would know 

what true beauty is." 

I read that and thought, 

“Damn, 

that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” 

I lie in our bed, 

enveloped in your embrace 

and the 10’ by 10’ blanket we share,

 because I’m always cold 

and you kick in your sleep. 

I lie in our bed, 

as your heart beats in my ear, 

and I smile to myself 

when your snores drown it out. 

On nights like tonight, 

I wish I could sew 

the imprint of your body 

onto my clothes. 

Maybe then, 

I wouldn’t feel so 

“without you”. 

Maybe I’d feel your body 

against mine, 

feel you resting your chin 

on the crown of my head 

as we dream, 

tangled together. 

Maybe I’d feel 

your rhythmic breathing, 

along with the occasional interruption 

that worries me 

every time. 

I wanna record 

everything you say, 

and keep it on my shelf 

with all my vinyls, 

so I can listen to your voice 

on repeat, 

even when you’re not around. 

You once apologized to me 

for rambling, 

but I’d let you recite the dictionary to me, 

just so I could hear you speak. 

My love, 

if I could, 

I’d

sew, 

etch, 

paint, 

engrave, 

immortalize,

every movement, 

sound, 

and footprint

you have 

ever created.